the door, even as he stands there, and sit down by the fire, shivering in a way that has nothing to do with coldness. Loss washes over me, breaking like a tide, my insides feeling hollow, my eyes smarting, and I fist my hands and rub them angrily.
Enough. I don’t have time for this; self-pity’s a luxury that I can’t afford.
Like bread. Or pride.
Enough, Errin. There’s work to do. Get up.
I start to rise but find myself leaning against the table, unable to straighten up, some invisible weight crushing me; the pain in my chest strains against my ribs and they feel brittle suddenly, and fragile, and not able to keep me together. My eyes fill with water and the room blurs around me.
I am alone. I’m so alone. Everyone is gone.
No, I tell myself. Do you want to end up like Mama? Do you want to go mad and run wild in the forest? Stop this. Stop this now. Lief will come back. He will. He has to. Then it’ll be fine again. The feeling of breathlessness grows and grows and I’m gasping, my hands curled into claws, my heart beating so fast it’s going to explode. I turn hot and cold, sweating and then shivering, trying to breathe, while bone-deep dread courses through me. I sink to the floor, pressing my forehead to the dirt. Enough, I repeat, over and over. Please.
Little by little, the vice around my ribs opens, my heart begins to slow and I can see, and hear, again. I stay down, breathing in and out, not caring about the soft stink of the rushes, or the mud on the ground. It’s enough to be able to breathe again.
I survived.
And I hope I have the strength to do it when it happens again.
Eventually I manage to stand, and set about my chores, half furious with myself for wasting the last of the daylight, my body feeling tender and used. The cheap candle stubs flicker violently as I move about the room, trying to work away my fear, all the while feeling as though I’m not wholly here, in my own body.
I shake out the tunics and blankets that are hanging to dry – forever hanging to dry and never likely to – rubbing dried lavender into them before moving them closer to the fire. I sort through the rushes on the floor and throw the worst of them out. I cover the windows as best I can, plugging the gaps in the shutters with old rags; then I make a pot of thin soup.
I sit on the bench with my bowl in my lap, examining the room. It looks as forlorn as it did before, worse even, for the sparse rushes, and the empty spaces. None of the furniture is ours; the table, the bench, the pallets, and even the battered rocking chair were all here when we came. All that belongs to us is the old chest in the alcove by the fire, its contents, and the battered pipkin.
I toy briefly with the idea of making some stock potions or tinctures, items that I could use on the road, or sell. But for the first time ever I don’t have it in me, to weigh and measure and lose myself in my craft. I don’t have it in me to do anything. I look down at my watery soup and feel a lump form in my throat. Oh for the sake of the Gods…
So, even though it’s still early evening, I stoke the fire and crawl into my pallet, pulling the blankets up and over my ears. I’ll get some sleep while I can. Tonight is the second night. Tonight she’ll start speaking to me.
For the last three moons, the man has been in nearly all of my dreams. He’s tall, at least as tall as Silas, and slender as him too. And as with Silas, I don’t know his face; I never see it. Sometimes I catch the glint of an eye, or have the impression of a smile, but always as a fragment, in that strange way dreams have, where you know something without knowing it. If I think about it, I suppose it’s no coincidence that the dream man appeared in my life shortly after Silas did.
But it doesn’t matter, because whoever the man is, his presence is familiar, comforting. He talks, but as soon as he’s spoken the words vanish, leaving behind a feeling of well-being. I know him. He’s